


Death Is Not The End

by Saral_Hylor



Series: Death Doesn't Always Mean The End [2]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Not really a fix-it but close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:09:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saral_Hylor/pseuds/Saral_Hylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"It has been six months, but somehow you are standing there at the foot of the bed when I wake up. I blink and you’re gone."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Is Not The End

**Author's Note:**

> This story just came to me after re-reading The Life Is Fading From You. I never had any intention of writing a sequel to it, but then this idea just begged to be written. 
> 
> This is not a magical fix it.

It has been six months, but somehow you are standing there at the foot of the bed when I wake up. I blink and you’re gone.

Even though it is only just past midnight, I do not go back to sleep. I sit up and wait, watching, wishing you’d come back.

It is not the same without you; everything is too quiet, dampened down. The rest of the team cannot make up for the hole you’ve left. Clay has deliberately not taken on a new tech, choosing instead to pick up floaters for each mission; none of us are ready to replace you.

I miss you, more than I ever thought I would, more than you would believe. If you were here you’d just laugh at me, but get that secretly pleased smile and blush you used to get whenever I paid extra attention to you.

A few weeks pass, we just returned from a particularly bad op. I almost killed the new tech; obnoxious little _hijo de puta._ He seemed to think that he could just fit into the space you left, trying too hard to be my friend, touching the few reminders I have of you. I thought I saw you there, at the last minute, when I’d been so close to just flying at the tech and beating him until he stopped reminding me of you. It was just a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, but it was you, standing there, reaching out to stop me, your face so disapproving and sad.

It had stopped me, but when I looked again, you were gone.

Your room on Base hasn’t been cleaned out yet; Clay somehow pulled enough strings or made enough excuses to have it left as it was for a while. It wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later they’d call on us to clean up your stuff, to pack it up and send it to your family.

Your sister calls occasionally, to ask how we are; we all take turns talking to her. Pooch talks to longest, always with the most to say. I sit and wait for my turn, listening to him reminisce about some of the stupid things you’d do around Base. When it’s my turn to talk, I can never think of anything to say; I listen to your sister sobbing on the other end of the phone. She manages to hold it together until she talks to me, then something seems to break. There is nothing I can do to make it better. Saying I’m sorry doesn’t cut it.

For the first time in the seven months since you died, your bedroom door is open; for a moment I panic, but everything is still there. It is not the same as you left it, your computer is on. I scout the room, but other than the door and the computer, there is no evidence that anyone has been in your room.

I go to turn off the computer, wanting to close up the room again, to trap the essence of you inside there, but something makes me stop.

You’re there, standing beside your desk, eyes large, sad, watching me. You look surprised when my gaze rests on you, as though you did not expect me to see you. But you’re there, within arm’s reach, I do not reach out to you though because you can’t be there. You’re dead.

I look at the computer instead. There is text on the screen now.

_You can see me?_

I leave the room, slamming the door behind me. Whatever this is, it is a cruel joke. You are dead. You are not in your room, and you are not leaving me messages on your computer.

Another month, another mission. Again, I thought I saw you, a flash of blonde hair, the sun glinting off your glasses. It drew my attention to one of the enemy soldiers closing in on Pooch. After I took the shot, I thought I heard the echo of your voice over the radio. _Lovely shot Cougs._

It is my first night back on Base, and I wake to see you standing in the corner of my room, leaning against the wall, looking at me forlornly. By the time I grab my side arm and bolt out of bed you’re gone. The room feels too empty suddenly.

I wait until the afternoon, when the rest of the guys are out, before I venture back into your room. It’s empty; for some reason I expected you to be there. I draw the curtains and sit against the wall, waiting, to see if you’ll come back, or if maybe I’m going mad.

I lose track of how long I sit there; I close my eyes at some point for what I think is a mere second. When I open my eyes again, you’re crouched in front of me, watching me carefully. Instinct tells me to reach for you, but I stop myself. I don’t want you to disappear. I stare at you until my eyes start to hurt, watching emotion flicker across your face; you go from sad to hopeful to worried and back to sad.

I risk closing my eyes, keeping them shut as I take in several deep breaths, focussing, like I’m preparing to take a shot.

You are still there when I open my eyes again, though you’ve moved to sitting on the edge of your bed, head in your hands. You look so sad, and yet, so real. Still in your fatigues, but there is no dust and grime, no bullet wound or blood. No gurgling as you breathe. No breathing.

You are still dead, but you’re here in front of me, looking like I could just reach out and touch you. I don’t risk it though. I don’t want to know that I cannot touch you.

It’s too quiet; if you were alive you’d be filling the room with noise. I miss the sound of your voice. I’d give anything to hear you talk again, I’d let you talk about anything you wanted. But it has been eight months of silence and I know I’ll never hear your voice ever again.

You cannot fill the silence, so I break it.

“You’re dead.” It’s a statement that does not need saying, but I have to know for sure.

You look up at me, face awash with momentary relief before the sadness sets back in again as you nod. It hurts to see you so depressed.

“You can’t be here.”

You shrug, mouth quirking in one corner. I never had to read your expressions before, you talked far too much for that, and far too honestly. But this look clearly says _oh well._ Trust you to be so blasé about your own afterlife.

My next question is one I have been wanting to ask since the first time I saw you. “Why are you haunting me?”

Your face pinches, eyebrows pulling together, mouth twisting in a look of pain. You need words to answer; not being able to talk is hurting you as much as not being able to hear your voice is hurting me.

The computer screen lights up, I did not even realise it was on, and I look up in time to see text appear.

_You won’t let me go._

As if it is that simple. I did not realise I’d been holding onto your memory so tightly until then, I have locked away all reminders of you, but I still keep them safe. I could let you go, let you move on, but I want to hold you close and keep you with me.

“I don’t want to. _Lo siento_.” I can feel the damp sting in my eyes, but I can’t cry, I haven’t cried once since I saw you take than bullet.

You shrug again and give me a soft smile. More text appears under the previous line. _It’s ok. I don’t mind sticking around. Been watching you, totally not creepy BTW, more like a guardian angel. Figured you’d dig that shit._

Even in death you aren’t serious for very long. I smile; the tiniest curve on my lips is all I can manage. I miss you so much.

_It’s not your fault, you know that right? I’m dead because some bastard shot me, because I put myself in danger. It is not your fault. Stop being such an idiot and blaming yourself, Cougs, I can’t watch you beat yourself up over it. You really should move on. There are plenty more badass techies out there in the world you could make friends with, ok, granted they won’t be as cool as me, because let’s face it, I’m pretty much the most awesome thing in the whole wide world and all the internet. If it wasn’t for the whole dead thing, I’d rival Chuck Norris for sheer awesomeness._

I watch the words appear on the screen, letter by letter at the same hectic speed you used to type. You try to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t work. It is my fault you’re dead. I didn’t shoot you, but I might as well have. I was not there to protect you when you needed it most. Something breaks inside me. Tears well in my eyes and finally fall, for the first time.

_Hey, hey, don’t cry over me. I’m still here, sort of. I miss you too, Cougs, but you don’t see me crying, now do you? Not sure if I even can. But that’s not the point. Stop crying man, I’m not worth it._

You are worth it though. You should not be dead. You should be out with Clay, Roque and Pooch. You should be unsuccessfully chatting up girls at the bar. You should be hunched over your computer, muttering away to yourself. You should be following me around, rambling about stupid things like how untrustworthy cats are. You should be laughing and living and breathing and just being you. You should be getting drunk and crawling into my bed then acting like it’s yours and there is nothing wrong with wrapping yourself around me in your sleep.

“You are. _Te amo_.” The words are out before I can stop them. I never told you, though I think you just knew anyway. I wanted you to know.

_Trust you to wait until I’m dead to get sentimental._

You’re crouched in front of me again, so fast that I didn’t see you even move. I watch as you point to yourself, tap your fingers to your chest, directly above your heart, and then point to me, reaching out your hand towards my heart. I swear I feel the touch of your fingers against my chest, but that is impossible.

You do not need a voice, or words on a screen to convey that message.

I close my eyes and I’m sure I can feel your hands cradle my face and the brush of your lips against mine.

I take to sleeping in your room after that. I feel closer to you there than anywhere else. Clay doesn’t question it, nor does he reprimand me. Text still appears on the computer screen when I’m in the room. I still wake up to find you watching me. I still imagine I can feel your touch, feel you curl around me when you lay next to me on the bed, feel your lips against mine when you lean close.

I still feel your hands close around mine when I wake from dreams of you bleeding. I still see your blood on my hands, but you’re there to remind me that it’s not my fault.

You are dead, but you’re not gone. And until I can join you, it is enough.


End file.
